


Repercussions

by V909



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abuse, Children main characters, Gen, Mystery, cliff hanger
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 03:49:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17379026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/V909/pseuds/V909
Summary: Set in the 1880's of London, England, this short-story follows the events of 12-year-old Cyrillus and his 3-year-old half brother, Sadao.





	Repercussions

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for my English final during my senior year of High School, so it's kinda whack, though I did get an A+ and was deemed the most creative writer of the class. :) However, the content of this story did have my teachers gossiping, though I take pride in that somehow.

     “Please, take care of your brother for me, Cyrillus.” his mother whispers in her dulcet voice, a soft demand as she kneels; hugging Sadao to her warm though rather exposed, pale chest, a look of urgency directed toward her son, Cyril.  
     “He is **not** my brother.” Cyril grinds out, his arms crossed tightly about his chest, he stares venomously at the small, thin three year old he had met just a fortnight ago, who clung to his mother not unlike some parasite. The product of his father’s affair with some Japanese harlot. Just another _thing,_ lingering in his mother’s way of happiness, to remind her indefinitely of Vern’s infidelity. Cyril hates the boy as much as he hates his damned father. _“When you die, I will see that you both rot in Hell.”_ He thinks to himself, boring holes into the back of his half-brother’s head.  
      However, his mother - Eudora - gains a wounded look when she sees the way he regards the little boy, and it makes his own hardened and apathetic expression soften, a secondhand sense of empathy tugging at his cold heart.  
      “Please, don’t be so childish. I know you better than that.” She says quietly, standing, she nudges Sadao toward Cyril. The child stumbles, looking up to her with quiet uncertainty, his pale blue eyes widened and owl-like.  
      “I will return at eventide.” Eudora affirms, tearing her gaze away. She opens the front door, inadvertently letting in a strong gust of the freezing, morning wind of London. She secures a light cloak over her shoulders and smiles a smile that doesn't quite reach her young but tired eyes, “I love you both. Cyril, if your father wakes before I return,.. please be good for him… _please.”_

 

* * *

 

     Cyril shoves Sadao into the only other room in the house - the bathroom, past a stained, thin green curtain as there is no door. The child stumbles over his cold feet, “Undress.” Cyril commands sharply, unbuttoning his cuffs and folding his sleeves upward past his elbows. The room is dark, and the only light provided is the sun’s cloud-shadowed rays that come in from a small window near the ceiling. Sadao silently does as he is told, shivering, he sheds the small blanket from around his slight shoulders and the only article of clothing he wears - a dirtied white blouse that is twice his size.  
      “Get in the tub.” The brunet stands behind him, a good foot taller. Sadao steps into the cold water of the metal tub, his exceedingly pale, smooth skin prickling as he sits. Cyril sits on his knees in front of the tub, grabbing the wide ladle beside it and filling it with water from the tub before dumping it over the boy, wetting his jet black hair back. Sadao shudders, his teeth chattering, and Cyril only feels a hint of sympathy for him. Only a hint.  
      He soaks him once more before grabbing the bar of soap. “Lift.” He says softly, grabbing the boy’s bony wrist, and Sadao lifts his arm for Cyril to lather before he scrubs it with a wet washcloth. As he cleans him, Cyril begins to hide a faint smirk as he starts to speak.  
      “You’re not truly my mother's son.” He starts, and his words make the boy look at him, blinking those annoyingly stunning blue eyes. They’re the bluest Cyril’s ever seen - a cold, stone blue. It was curious - a Japanese child being born with wide, charming blue eyes. His ebony hair drips with chilled water and Cyril continues, purposefully rubbing the boy’s flawless skin a bit raw. “She’s _my_ mother, not your’s. _Your_ mother…” He dumps another cold bucketful of water onto him, “She doesn’t care about you. And is probably dead, to boot.”  
     Sadao’s small, thick black eyebrows draw together and he finally speaks to his brother for the first time since his arrival. “My mama loves me. You're lying.”  
     Cyril frowns and it deepens as he slicks Sadao’s other arm with soap. “Then why would she have abandoned you at our doorstep, huh? Answer that.”  
     “My mama is coming back. She told me.”  
     “She lied, you dimwitted sod.” Cyril scrubs at Sadao’s skin, turning it pink, and his grip tightens around his slim wrist when the boy tries to pull away.  
     “You're hurting me.” Sadao begins to cry, his cheeks reddening in dismay. Cyril glares at him and the tear that rolls down his cheek.  
     "It's what you deserve.” The older boy's heart begins to race with anger, yet,  
     “Why?” Sadao asks, and Cyril finds that he detests the innocence he hears in his soft voice.  
     “You would do well to shut your mouth, Sadao, before I feel a punishment should be put in place for the way you're talking to me so disrespectfully.” Cyril berates, before wringing the cloth out above his little brother’s head. “Now close your eyes. The soap does sting a bit… and don’t cry, lest you wake Vern and earn ourselves a smack.”

 

* * *

     “Lift your arms.”  
     Sadao does and Cyril tugs his arms through a simple, white cotton slip dress, one that had once belonged to himself when he was Sadao’s age. They could provide no other clothes to outfit him in, and so a slip dress is all Cyril dresses him in, before he begins to comb the boy’s hair with harsh strokes. Sadao whimpers, his amaranth pink lips curling into a pout.  
     “It hurts...” He says quietly, his hands rising to push away the comb. Cyril growls and slaps his hands away before he takes hold of his wrists, squeezing them in his hands. He hopes they bruise.  
     “Shut your mouth.” He whispers aggressively, “If your crying wakes Vern, you’ll not have a thing to eat today...”  
     Sadao sniffles silently. He blinks away tears, watching as Cyril goes back to combing his hair for him, though softer than before.  
     “Big brother,” Sadao starts in a small voice, and Cyril sighs.  
     “What is it?”  
     “Why does papa sleep all day?” the little boy asks.  
     The brunet becomes stiff at the word ‘papa’. With a grimace, he combs through Sadao’s hair quickly, “He isn’t my _papa.”_ he spits, before standing and stretching to set the comb back on the windowsill. He chooses to ignore the insolent question.  
     “He isn't?” Sadao questions, perplexed.  
     Cyril takes his hand and pulls him to his feet before leading him to the corner of the shoddy house, where there is a chess board lying on the floor.  
     “That sorry excuse for a man will _never_ be my father. Now, sit down. I am going to teach you how to play chess so that you may earn your place by making money.”

 

* * *

  
     “Did Cyril take care of you?” Eudora asks, taking off her cloak. She leans down to caress the small boy’s cheek, but Vern’s yelling interrupts her, her hand hardly gracing Sadao’s face.  
     “Where’s my money, woman?” He demands, already donning his hat. Eudora hastily hands him the money she'd earned for the evening and Vern takes it, calmed by the shine of the coins, he kisses his wife’s cheek quickly before opening the door. He stops to look back at her,  
     “They’ve’n't made a pence all day. Beat them red by the time I come back.” He addresses before he leaves, slamming the door hard enough to shake the house and rattle the windows.  
     Eudora looks to her children - Cyril, a susceptible twelve year old, and Sadao, an even more susceptible, frail _three_ year old. Cyril looks at the floor - his father's words rang true, as he had no money to show for all the chess he’d been playing.  
     “I couldn't, mama. I was teaching Sadao how to play.”  
_  
_

* * *

  
  
     The lot is deathly silent by the time midnight rolls around. Cyril’s mother sleeps alone on the only bed in the house while his father is out, likely spending what little money Eudora has made to get drunk. Cyril rests uncomfortably in the arm chair next to the wall, which faces away from his mother. He can't fall asleep, however. The new found weight in his lap keeps him from doing so, and the pain of a belt's sting upon his bottom has him shifting endlessly in discomfort.  
     His half brother sits in his lap, curled up to his chest and breathing slowly, asleep. However much Cyril dislikes him, for the little pest that he is in his life, he holds him close, one arm wrapped under the little boy's thighs with his other hand threading through silken black hair. Sadao sighs and cuddles closer, and Cyril frowns - finding that he quite enjoys the heat the little boy provides. Though after a moment, he is surprised to hear a whisper -  
     “Big brother,” Sadao says in a quiet voice, and Cyril’s hand stops mindlessly petting his hair. He thought he was asleep.  
     “I'm not your…” Cyril starts in a whisper, then sighs. “What is it? Go to sleep.” He speaks softly as he knows he should, to wordlessly persuade Sadao to keep his own voice down.  
     “I'm cold.” Sadao says, shivering against him as though to prove his point. His dress bundles at his hips, leaving his bare bottom to the cold air. Cyril groans quietly, annoyed.  
     “It’s because you aren't letting your clothes cover you. As well, you feel perfectly warm to me.” He fixes the boy's dress and holds him tighter. Sadao shivers for a moment in his arms.  
     “Your hand is cold.” He says.   
    Cyril shushes him. “Don't wake up mother. Go back to sleep.”  
     “B-...But I'm cold…” Sadao whines.  
     Cyril sighs and kisses the boy's cheek. “Warmer?” He asks, “Won't you be quiet, now?”  
     Sadao looks at him with a look that thoroughly expresses his confusion.  
     “My mother once said that a kiss warms the heart... Now close your eyes.” Cyril explains.  
     A long silence ensues before - “...My bottom hurts.”  
     “Deal with it. You'll get used to mother's hand for not providing.”  
     Sadao hiccups a cry. “No.”  
     “Those words mean nothing, as you’ll soon learn, Saddy.” Cyril whispers in return, his voice flat, he decides a nickname may calm the boy.  
   _“Cyril.”_ Sadao whines, his legs kicking. Or perhaps not. Cyril thinks it utterly ridiculous that the boy seemingly thinks that by telling him these things it will relieve any pain. It never did for him. Sadao knees Cyril in the chin on accident just then, making the older boy bite his tongue - and he is about to scold him but he restrains himself when he hears his mother shift in her bed.  
     After a moment of listening, he gives Sadao a hard glare in the moonlight. _“Shh.”_ He sounds, before he stands, carrying Sadao in his arms, he sneaks outside.  
  


* * *

 

     “Don't go anywhere.” Cyril sets Sadao out in front of the doorway, on the frozen, hard ground of the night which stings the little boy’s bare feet - they are quick to flush. Sadao immediately reaches out for Cyril’s hand before he can return inside, tears already brimming in his panicked eyes.  
     “Cyril don't leave me! Please, please don't, don't--”  
      _“Shh!_ Do you _want_ to wake the entire lot?” Cyril reprimands in a loud whisper, smacking the Japanese boy's quivering hand away. Sadao grasps at the other's nightgown in his small hands instead, desperate.  
     “Please, I'll be quiet, I'll be quiet-” he cries, but Cyril shoves him away.  
     “You aren't setting a good example of that notion.” he says simply, before taking a step back inside. “Don't go anywhere. Stay here until you can quiet down. I won't have you waking my mother. If I don’t find you on this doorstep come morning, **I’ll** be the one beating your bottom red, _got it?”_  
     “Ple-ase, Cyril - big brother..! Don't-Don't leave me alone in the dark! The d-dar-k-,..” the child is entirely hysterical.  
     Cyril stares coldly into watery blue eyes with his own dry, goldenrod colored ones, emotionless and firm. “You are _not_ my brother. You will _learn_ your lesson the same as _I_ did, and you will learn to keep your mouth _shut!”_  
     When he's inside, he makes sure to lock the door, and he ignores the quiet pleas from his brother to let him back in as he takes a seat back in the arm chair, crossing his arms.  
  


* * *

 

     His ears ring with the sound of Sadao’s sobs for an entirety of two hours - two hours, and he doesn't know if sleep finally takes him or if Sadao finally quiets, but when he wakes in the early morning, all is silent and his mother is still asleep. Cyril smiles softly to himself - his father hadn't come home yet. Good. He doesn't want to imagine what Vern would have done, had he found Sadao outside.  
     Cyril steps out of his green arm chair and stretches with a quiet yawn, smoothing his white, cotton nightgown free of wrinkles before wrapping his arms around himself, pulling at his long sleeves. It’s a chilly morning, one sure to freeze the bones before the skin. With bare feet, he makes his way to the front door and opens it, peeking outside.  
      The first thing he perceives is that it had snowed during his rest, quite a lot. Two feet at most. The second is that it is absolutely freezing outside, something he takes note of as a gust of icy air smooths past his face, brushing his dark brown locks of medium length away from his face. The third thing he realizes, as he looks down, up, around and down the narrow street - is that Sadao is absolutely nowhere to be seen.  
     A small part of him wants to rejoice, but he knows very well that the thought is exceedingly cruel. Instead, his blood runs cold, and he thinks he can feel his stomach physically sink an inch in sudden consternation. He steps fully outside, pressing a foot into the snow before immediately retracting said foot. It was cold, of course. He goes back inside for his shoes but he freezes when he sees his mother sitting at the edge of her bed.  
     “Good morning, love.”  
     “Mornin’.” Cyril says all too quickly, unable to stop himself from shaking as he runs for his shoes.  
     “What's got you in such a hurry?” Eudora asks, running her fingers through her long, brown hair. Her son shakily laces up his boots, deciding to forego socks as he only owns but a single, dirty and hole-ridden pair.  
     “Sadao- S-Sadao went outside to play in the snow and ran off. I'll go get him... You rest, mother, I'll be back within the minute no doubt.”  
  


* * *

  
  
      Cyril rushes out of the house, slamming the door shut, and he then immediately smacks into someone, clashing his forehead loudly against the other’s belt.  
      “-Christ!” He screeches an abrupt curse as he falls back hard on his bottom, his hands flying to ease the budding sore above his right eye. He winces for a moment before looking up to spite whoever he had run into, but his breath stops short as his eyes meet familiarly soft, blue eyes. A brilliant, cobalt blue-  
     “Luci?” The brunet breathes, taken aback. “Lucius Swanborough?” He continues, standing hurriedly to his feet.  
      The young man before him blinks, hesitating with recognition before a smile plays at his plump lips. “Cyrillus Urry? I haven’t seen you in quite a time.” The older boy steps up to Cyril and brushes snow from his hair with a gloved hand. He stifles a laugh behind a gloved hand, “My word, why are you dressed so lightly in such weather? Need I take you home with me again?” He takes in the sight of the poor boy’s outfit - a now damp nightgown and scuffed boots, which’s heels cling desperately to the pads of the boots, damaged and worn from excessive use.  
      Cyril grumbles, swatting at Lucius’s hand. Remembering the cold, he begins to shiver and his teeth begin to chatter. “Shut y-your mouth. I’ve no time for useless reunions, I must find my little brother.” Cyril crosses his arms close around his chest to keep his warmth and looks behind the elder boy, his breath coming out in stuttered, small white puffs before he looks behind himself. “Damn it all.” He mutters under his breath, his dark brows knitting together in apprehension.  
      Sensing his anxiety, Lucius can’t help but gain a look of concern. “I hadn’t known you’ve a little brother. How long’s it been?” He ponders, but quickly follows with, “Have you lost him? Allow me to help, I’m in no hurry.” He fixes his scarf around his neck comfortably before pulling off his coat and tossing it toward the shorter boy. “Come, don’t argue. We must hurry - losing your brother in such weather is of great concern.”  
      Cyril can only nod, too proud to audibly accept his long-forgotten friend’s offer as he dons the garment, shoving his arms through the warm, thick sleeves.  
  


* * *

 

      They run at a steady pace down the streets and slums of London, turning their heads from right to left, up and down - in search of a black haired, pale little boy with blue eyes who is wearing but a simple, white slip dress.  
      “How’d you lose him?” Lucius starts, running a bit ahead of the other. He doesn’t get an immediate response - “Cyril?”  
      “I- h-he wouldn’t stop crying last night, so I put-- I put him outside for a bit, but a time later when I che-ch-checked on him, he was gone!” The brunet stutters, stumbling, he can’t feel his toes - and denies that he is holding back tears.  
      Lucius at once stops his steps and Cyril crashes into him.  
      “How horrid!” Lucius turns to him, aghast. “Cyril... how cruel you are astounds me..!”  
      Cyril can only scoff, pushing his dark hair out of his face and away from his slick lips before the strands can freeze into place. “You’ve- You’ve no idea what I’ve b-been thr-rough.” He retorts, taking a step forward, but he trips on his laces with a short yelp and falls on his face. His hair curtains over his eyes, stringy with melted snow, and his nose begins to drip crimson when he sits up. He wipes at the warm stream with his sleeve, only to realize he wipes his blood with Lucius’s expensive coat. He at last can bear no more,  
      “Oh, Luci, forgive me, pl-ease!” He suddenly bursts into tears - he wants to ask for forgiveness for many things, too many things - but he can’t find his voice any longer, shoving his face back into the snow. Unbeknownst to him, he’s beginning to make a scene, attracting the gaze of more than a few pairs of eyes.  
      “How wretched I am. I only t-tried to teach him the same way mother a-and father taught me - and now he may be lost to us.” Cyril sobs, his blood spilling onto the once pure white snow. Beside him, Luci kneels, leaning over him.  
      “Cyril, calm yourself - it will be fine, we’ll find him... Come, sit up,” He hooks his muscular arms under Cyril’s shoulders and drags him back onto his bottom, pitying the sight that greets him. The poor boy’s lidded golden eyes are rimmed in red from his crying, his nose and cheeks flushed and wet with tears and snow, as well as blood. Cyril sniffles with a moan, again wiping the blood from his nose with the coat sleeve.  
      “I am simply atrocious, Luci. You shouldn’t c-care for me in the least,” More tears stream down his cheeks, warm and salty, “Yet here you are, w-wasting your time with an… an _imbecile_ like me. I’m j-ju-st like my bastard of a father, however m-uch I want to abstain from being the _swine_ of a man that _he_ is!” he hyperventilates, sucking in a bit of his bottom lip to nip at it with his uncontrollably chattering teeth. Against him, Lucius goes rigid, looking to the collecting audience with unease.  
      “Cyril, please, don’t think so low of yourself. ...Please, you’re gaining attraction…” The older boy’s voice lowers with each word.  
      “Mother’s probably worried s-s--ick. Sadao… m-my little brother may be dead, or worse. Mother is going to h-have my head when I return without him, that -- th-that imposter, that weak little rat who can’t do anything for himself!” Cyril stands with a need he doesn't understand, to find and secure Sadao, and he throws Lucius’s grip away - but he stiffens when he realizes he is surrounded by a group of women. Poor, dirty women, their hair unkempt and their makeup caked.  
       “What…” He starts, taking a step back, he finds himself coming back to chest with a woman behind him, who clasps her dirty, icy gloved hands onto his shoulders.  
       “Cyril?” One woman starts, her eyes darting to the other women before landing back on the short brunet. “That young man called you Cyril just now, didn’t he?” She continues, and another woman chimes in,  
      “He did. I heard him.”  
      “I heard it too, he called him Cyril.”  
      “He looks like a Cyril.”  
      “‘You sure? He doesn’t look very big.”  
      “No, it ‘as to be him - look at ‘im, cryin’ out desperately. ’S definitely Cyril.”  
       Lucius stands to his feet, and takes hold of Cyril’s arm, pulling him close and away from the strange, seemingly obsessed women. “What’s it to you?” He questions defensively, tucking a lock of his blond fringe away from his face. Cyril remains silent for the moment.  
       Some of the women look offended, but one speaks - a tall woman with blue-green eyes and tanned skin - the one who had spoken first.  
       “Well, ‘few hours ago, a child was shouting _‘Cyril, Cyril, big brother!’_ all morn, pounding on a door. We thought he must’ve been running away from somethin’, but it seemed no one was home. Then, later, a man dragged him away, claimin’ to be ‘is father, ‘dressed all dandily.” the woman points to Cyril then, “You must be the Cyril ‘e was callin’ for. ‘You his older brother?”  
      Cyril feels he could cry with relief - there was hope yet that his little brother hadn’t been lost to him.


End file.
